I can’t even sin, Nora’s back on the eaves, butt complacent as a nest:
gravity can’t seem to win.

Loved, we have no need for love;
thieves, surprised in other people’s houses, we wait for night,
we touch our bodies like jewels made of paste.

Stalin has to press his ear to my mouth:
I have only myself. Put me on the train.
I won’t look back.

She was carmine inside
like a sea bass
and empty.

Where are your monuments, your battles, martyrs?
Where is your tribal memory? Sirs,
in that grey vault. The sea

We begin every night ignorant,
two xenophobes called in from exile,
pleased to the point of buoyant.

Friday arrives with all its attendant ecstasies.
Mirrors bloom in the hushed beds.

The ocotillo begins to publish its orange tongues

Salt me down where love was
on a blue burn to remember the real pain.
I’m worn out from my back’s arch and pull,

As for that other thing
which comes when the eyelid is glazed
and the wax gleam

1. Fat Man
(Shokado)

Clearly, the man eats too much.